


A Match of Beasts

by wrothmothking



Category: Cinderella Phenomenon (Visual Novel)
Genre: M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 22:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19260730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: They meet. They fight. They survive.





	A Match of Beasts

He blocks just in time to save his arm, muscles burning with the strain as Varg presses close, that damnable smirk unchanging. Fake. His eyes, golden, full of mischief, age-old pain, and a self-directed rage promising the destruction of anyone who gets too close--they're familiar. They're Klaude's eyes.

Much as Varg enjoys their fight, he doesn't want to be here.

The dagger arcs for his chest, Klaude dodges back, takes advantage of the longer range afforded by his longsword to stab through the wolf's heart before he can recover.

But Varg is fast, faster than anyone Klaude's fought before, and between one blink and the next he's not there anymore. He parries the flanking attack with not a moment to spare, and when Varg doesn't move to strike again, Klaude pauses, curious.

"They say there's two of you in there. What's that like?"

Varg flinches. "What's it like being a beast?"

It rankles; questions bubble in his mind, but Klaude bites his tongue to keep from voicing them. He won't show weakness in front of an enemy, especially one unchained.

So he sighs, pitying. "We're both beasts, dear. It's only that I occasionally lose my shape to one, while poor Fritz has lost his mind to you."

Varg's expression blanks. His free hand grabs a second dagger from nowhere and, snarling like a rabid dog, he attacks.

Anger broadcasts his movements, yet Klaude can't take advantage. He's sluggish, from lack of sleep. He's soft, from lack of challenge. Varg tears through his defenses like they were never there, impassioned, blood-hungry, desperate. He growls, deep, and terrible, and unending, and the sound of it resonates in Klaude's very soul.

Blood sprays from a cut on his shoulder.

Blood drips from a gap in his side--shallow, thanks to the ruffles of his dress.

But still he fights, for the princess, for himself, for all those at the Marchen, for the simple fact that there's no other option if he wants to keep his head. Varg would allow no retreat, and he's in no state to consider Klaude's worth as a prisoner. Not that Klaude would allow such an indignity.

Klaude disarms him of one of his blades with a flourish Lucette would berate him for.

"Getting tired? Perhaps you're not the perfect predator your masters boasted of," he mocks.

Varg smiles. The honest joy behind it sends shivers up Klaude's spine.

"I underestimated you. It would be a shame to lose a character of such potential so early into the play, don't you agree?" His glee vanishes, overcome by bitter depression. "Maybe you'll manage what I can't."

"What-"

Shadows swirl around him, climb up his figure, cocoon him until there's nothing left of Varg. Startled, Klaude rushes forward too late, looking to, somehow, pry the darkness away. The shadows feel alien under his touch, an absence, were he blind he'd think he'd yet made contact.

And then it's over.

Fritz blinks at him, gasps, alarmed. "Ma'am! You're bleeding!"

"I'm aware."

"We have to get you to a doctor immediately. Can you walk?"

"I'm standing, aren't I?" Klaude snaps.

Fritz smiles, the fool. "Of course. My mistake, ma'am. Please let me know if I can offer any assistance."

Klaude stares passed him. The sudden personality swap leaves him feeling wrong-footed. For Varg to willingly concede control, and after making what sounded like a request, well. Whatever game this is, Klaude's not about to do his dirty work.

Deciding to leave the princess's pet to her for the moment, Klaude makes his exit. Fritz follows.

"Can I help you?"

"No, ma'am."

"I don't need an escort."

"Maybe I do." Fritz frowns, his eyes wet. "I'm the one who hurt you, aren't I? I'd understand if you really want me gone. Just say the word, and you'll never see me again."

"You remember?"

"Not exactly." Fritz tightens his grip on his sword, teeth gritted. Klaude mirrors the action, wary. "It must've been horrible, ma'am. I truly am sorry."

"It's 'sir'."

"Ah, apologies, sir."

No questions follow about the dress, make-up, or Klaude's high voice. However well he knows better than to trust such easy acceptance, still, he feels something in him _settle_.

He can't return to the Marchen with Fritz, but he hesitates in sending him away. He's not in any danger of keeling over from blood loss. May as well make the most of this opportunity to speak with Varg's better half.

"So you're aware of Varg?"

Fritz nods, miserable. "I wasn't at first. There were just these gaps in my, my memory, but it was gradual and people are always saying how forgetful I am-"

"Some truths are impossible to face on our own."

"Well said, sir." Fritz peers at him, concerned. "You're sure you're not in need of help?"

Scowling, Klaude averts his gaze with a huff. As seems to be his custom with these castle brats, he's revealed too much.

"If you remembered our fight you'd know better than to ask."

"Are you in want of any help, then?"

Klaude stops, levers a glare at Fritz. "What's going on in the castle?"

"I don't know. I-"

"How do you break your curse?"

"I don't know."

"Then you're useless." With a scoff, he pivots on his heel. "Stop following me, now. We don't need a lost pup burdening us."

"A-ah, alright. Good day, sir."

Curse him for making Klaude feel the villain for doing the sensible thing. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he sees Fritz looking down, sweaty fingers yanking at his hair, shaky legs struggling to carry him down an adjacent alley. A tear slides down his cheek. Picture perfect dejection.

"Wait."

"Sir?"

Their eyes meet. The hope there makes Klaude want to scream.

"I have a place. Better you're there than wreaking havoc through our fair town."

Fritz curls into himself at the comment. Klaude pretends not to notice; keeping Fritz reminded of his dark deeds may be essential for him to remain in line and, more importantly, himself.

Despite his own injured state, Klaude throws Fritz's arm over his shoulder to help him, freezing when he notices a dark red patch in a sea of white. It's irritating to realize Varg came to their fight hurt and still nearly won, but, in all fairness, Klaude himself was a ways from his best.

"We'll have to tend to you."

"You first. It's an old wound, sir."

"How old?"

Fritz waves away the concern. "It's already half-healed. If I hadn't gone up against such a skilled opponent as yourself, it would've never reopened."  
Klaude accepts the compliment without comment--it's fact delivered with a smile, not flattery. Silence descends until he delivers them to the basement of a stout townhouse, where he waits anxiously for judgment.

As the space serves only as an emergency back-up should anything happen to the Marchen or, more likely, his welcome there, Klaude hasn't concerned himself much with its upkeep. Especially not since his position with his fellow cursed and their hangers-on has solidified.

So, there's dust. Cobwebs.

Fritz offers nothing. After gently removing himself from Klaude's space, he settles on the trunk, moving slow, expression unpained. The last two's mismatch robs Klaude of his voice for a long, strange moment, where he finds himself frozen with sudden, arguably uncharacteristic concern.

Then he realizes it's out of fear for reprisal. Being cast out. Again.

Klaude's father never hid his love, used to shower him in attention and care. What must it feel like, he wonders, to be so rejected by half the reason for your very existence? And for having a heart, of all things!

"You're sitting on the first aid kit."

"Oh!"

Embarassed for not stopping him before he was comfortable, Klaude's quick to help him shift back and up onto the bed.

"Um, is this really okay?"

Klaude raises an eyebrow at him. "Do you not trust me to set my own boundaries?"

"I meant no offense, sir, I beg your pardon for the implication-"

"Relax."

The armchair in the corner completes his set of furniture, and unlike his bed was bought not for comfort, but to make the room seem less bare. It fails.

"Always tripping over yourself to be as small as possible. Don't you have any self-respect?" Klaude asks.

"'Small'?"

The creak of the trunk's hinges nearly drown out his voice. Klaude lets him believe it did as he rummages, sighing when Fritz doesn't press the issue.

"I thank you your hospitality, Mr. Karma."

He snorts. "Just Karma, please."

"As-as you like, sir."

"Shirt off."

"You first."

"Well, if you insist," Klaude jokes with a wink, but seeing the stalwart, untouchable knight turn so red makes something hot and exciting unfurl in his gut. A shame Fritz's probably too repressed for anything deeper than co-workers.

He feels no insecuriy bearing himself before him. A decade of combat training combined with a largely safe life leave him well-sculpted and blemish-free. His curse mark draws the eye of course, but only a witch could guess what it is.

Gaze cast low in shame, Fritz grabs the medkit and beckons Klaude to the space beside him.

"I can tend to myself," Klaude says, even as he does as indicated. Fritz doesn't acknowledge the token protest.

He takes off his gloves.

"This will sting, sir."

Fritz's touch is gentle. Klaude feels warmth, callouses, the odd raised line of scar tissue. Marks of training accidents, or something more sinister?

His skin is soft, like silk; it's unexpected, for a swordsman. He must use lotion. Klaude quells the urge to grab a hand and sniff--if it's scented, he could guess the kind.

Time passes as he wrestles with the thought. Fritz may've never been the problem himself, but he will die with Varg, if and when it becomes necessary. Having _relations_ with him would expose him to certain vulnerabilities, though such things are rarely one-sided.

And-and Klaude doesn't want to use Fritz like that, and neither is he prepared to learn the difference between casual sex and sex as a weapon. The very thought makes him want to vomit.

Except Varg didn't want to be there, in that square. Whatever master he serves, it's not loyalty or coin that's keeping him bound to them. So, not Alcaster. The witch he's allied himself with, then, who's likely the one he'd called upon to curse Fritz in the first place. Killing the witch won't free Fritz, but it might free Varg. One step at a time.

The idea of Varg as an ally is apealing enough Klaude's not nauseous with annoyance for doing his dirty work after all. Varg's fondness for the princess would prevent him fleeing, so that's one concern he can dismiss.

"Good? They're not too tight?"

Startled, Klaude jumps. Fritz grabs at him, his hands locked around Klaude's arms like manacles, pinning them together in an intangible straightjacket.

"Sorry!" Fritz squeaks, unhanding him and retreating back, back, too far, flopping onto the floor. That was more the reaction Klaude had expected. Then again: Varg's supposed to be his dark complement, not an alien personality. His true self should be a mix between them.

Klaude ignored the knight's apologies, thinking. What was the reason for this angelic persona? Fear of becoming his father, emulation of someone softer, perhaps the king himself, or did he bury any perceivably negative qualities to avoid rejection? The last option, at least, Klaude is familiar with.

"It's fine. Sit back down." When Fritz hesitates, Klaude continues: "We are men trained for death, and I'm sure it looked like I was preparing to lunge. That you sought to contain rather than harm is a testament to your own strength."

Fritz blinks. "I never thought of it that way. Thank you?"

"You're welcome." Klaude beams. "Now we're even for the bandages."

"So I'll owe you one for mine?"

"Would that be so bad?" He's prepared to retract the line immediately, but Fritz smiles.

"A favor, then."

If Fritz sits closer than he was before, well, it's not the time to pursue it. Regrettable. Perhaps once Angielle and the man himself become whole...

Klaude files it away for later. For now, he has a bare-chested knight to tend to. 


End file.
